Taking his broad-brimmed gardening hat from the table, the pastor
went down among his flower-beds, followed by Biörn, to whose innate
asperity of temper was added the snarling fretfulness of old age.

A fine young brood of white Brahma chickens, having surreptitiously
effected an entrance into the sacred precincts of the flower-garden,
were now diligently prosecuting their experiments in entomotomy right
in the heart of a border of choice carnations. When Biörn had chased
the marauders to the confines of the poultry yard, and watched the
last awkward fledgling scramble through the palings, his master began
to repair the damage, and soon became absorbed in the favourite task
of tying up the spicy tufts of bloom that deluged the air with
perfume as he lifted and bent the slender stems. His straw hat shut
out the sight of surrounding objects, and he only turned his head
when Mrs. Lindsay put her hand on his shoulder, and exclaimed:

"Peyton, 'the Philistines _be_ upon thee'!"

"Do you mean that she has come?"

"I think so; there is a carriage at the gate, and I noticed a trunk
beside the driver."

He rose hastily, and stood irresolute, visibly embarrassed.

"Why, Peyton! Recollect your text last Sunday: 'No man having put his
hand to the plough,' etc., etc., etc. It certainly is rather hard to
be pelted with, one's own sermons, but it would never do to turn your
back upon this benevolent furrow. Come, pluck up courage, and front
the inevitable."